


May Your Past Be the Sound of Your Feet Upon the Ground

by vinewood



Series: You Know I'm Yours For the Taking [5]
Category: Glee
Genre: AU, F/F, Family, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinewood/pseuds/vinewood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's a new patient, about ninety years old, with the most hideous attitude possible-- she yells at the nurses in Spanish and most of them are offended but he just finds the insults a bit comical; he's got an odd sense of humor that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May Your Past Be the Sound of Your Feet Upon the Ground

**Author's Note:**

> I've done past, present and now future. There will be four chapters to this, four different conflicts and/or resolutions.
> 
> I consider this a belated birthday gift to myself.
> 
> Again, there is a considerable use of Spanish phrases used in this. It should be relatively easy to figure out what the phrases mean due to the context, but I've included the translations at the end of the story for anyone who needs them.
> 
> There is a fraction of the poem "Estudio con un algo de tedio" (Study with a little tedium) by the wonderful Salvadoran poet Roque Dalton in this piece. This happens to be one of my favorite poems and one that I think suits Santana very well, especially when read in its entirety. The full text (and its English translation) is included in the end notes

She's tucked away in the room at the end of the hall, standard and sterile, looking fragile and small.  
  
He's been volunteering at NYU-Presbyterian for almost a year and a half, ever since he decided that he wanted to be a doctor. His mom and mamá are really proud of him, proud of his great academic record, his status as an All-American athlete, as a good citizen... Really, however proud of him they are, he is just as happy to be their son.  
  
He's going to miss his family when he goes away to Dartmouth in the fall.  
  
So, he comes into the hospice ward once a week and visits with the people there, keeping them company, reading to them. Anyway, she's a new patient, about ninety years old with the most hideous attitude possible-- she yells at the nurses in Spanish and most of them are offended but he just finds the insults a bit comical; he's got an odd sense of humor that way.  
  
He walks into her room with copies of Samuel Beckett, Victor Hugo, and Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer in his backpack. He's not sure if she wants him to read or if she'd rather have him as her verbal punching bag but he's ready either way.  
  
"Buenas tardes, señora Fernández," he says.  
  
She turns to face him and scowls. "You again? Can't an old woman die in peace?"  
  
He grins. "Apparently no."  
  
She sighs loudly. "Bueno, Asher-- oye, what kind of name is that? You look Latino and you speak español as well as any caribeño I know. Why did your parents not go with another name?"  
  
"A Spanish name, you mean?" He shrugs and sits down in the chair next to her bed. "I was named after my grandfathers, one of whom was Jewish. My middle name is Gabriel."  
  
"So you are Jewish?"  
  
He nods. "I am. My mom is a Jew. My mamá was raised Catholic. I've been to services in both faiths- Mass and Shabbat."  
  
If she is disgusted by the dynamics of his family, she sure doesn't show it. She attempts to sit up and when she struggles to do so, Asher helps her.  
  
"¿Dos mamás? Do you know your father?"  
  
"I don't have a father," he answers. "I mean, my moms used a sperm donor to have me. I've never met him."  
  
"¿Eres hijo único?"  
  
He shakes his head. "No. I'm the oldest of four children. I have two sisters and a younger brother."  
  
"And your life? La gente es cruel, I'm sure your life is more difficult than your other friends'."  
  
"Actually, I'm very fortunate," he says. "My moms work very hard and my brother, sisters, and I have never wanted for anything. There have some derogatory comments made in the past but none of us are going to accept anyone else's directive on how to live our lives. My mothers raised me to be strong and proud, and I am so very proud to be their son."  
  
She swallows and then smiles very softly. "Bien dicho, Asher. ¿Y que hacen?"

"My mom is an award-winning Broadway actress and my mamá is the president of a hedge fund. They came to New York fresh out of high school with hopes and sorrows and somehow they crafted together this bunch of misfits they called friends into a family," he explains. "And then that family grew to include children."  
  
Asher clears his throat. "My mom was an orphan before she turned eighteen. My mamá lost her dad when she was twenty-two. Mom's family lived in Paris and Mamá was disowned by most of her family when she came out."  
  
The silence in the room is heavy.  
  
"I have a daughter named Nora," she says softly, hesitantly. "When she was a young girl she wanted to be a singer or algo así. Pura estupidez." She scoffs. "She was lucky; she had good boyfriend who was going to be a doctor."  
  
"Le dije, 'you're not going to find a better man'. So she settled down and they got married and she had a daughter." She shrugs as best she can. "That little girl was my favorite. I was hard on her because of it, because I'm not a warm person, because I wanted her to be the very best. Pero la quise más que a los otros nietos."  
  
He tilts his head. "¿Que pasó? Why is she not here?"  
  
"When she was seventeen, my granddaughter came to see me and she sat me down in the kitchen and told me that she was a lesbian."  
  
She looks sheepish, ashamed almost. Asher knows what her reaction was and he can see why she would feel discomfited, since he's just told her how great his family is.  
  
He tugs his sweater closer to his torso. She clears her throat.  
  
"Le dije que era una vergüenza," she whispers. "I was embarrassed to hear her tell me about this girl she was after. I didn't want to think about other people finding out- the family, our neighbors, our priest. I didn't understand how she could do this to me, shame this way. Did she not see how disgusted people would be with her perversiones?"  
  
"No es vergüenza," Asher states firmly. "Loving someone of the same gender is not shameful or disgusting or a perversion."  
  
She nods. "Maybe not but that is what la gente thinks. I didn't want people in town to look at me and just see la abuela de la lesbiana. I told her to leave and not come back.  
  
"I'm not proud of what I said or what I did. I've thought about that day for the past thirty-three years and all I can see is her face and all I can hear is her sobbing."  
  
She's crying softly so Asher reaches out and clasps her hand in his.  
  
"Me avergüenzo de mi misma," she confesses. "I wish I could apologize but I think it's too late for that. I don't even know where she is."  
  
Asher shakes his head. "My mamá tells me that en los tiempos difíciles my abuelo used to say 'spes autem non confundit'."  
  
Alma Fernández smiles. "’Hope does not disappoint’. My son-in-law used to say that. His middle name was Gabriel, too." When she sees Asher smile, she gestures to the nightstand. “Mira allí adentro.”

He opens the top drawer and reaches inside. He finds a diptych that contains two photographs.

He recognizes the women in them immediately. He says nothing as he hands it over.

“This is my Santana,” Alma says, running her thumb over the face of the brunette in the photograph on the left hand plate. The young girl in question is standing on stage, wearing her red McKinley High School graduation robe and mortarboard, while receiving her diploma. “I didn’t attend her graduation but her father sent me these pictures. I think it was so I could see what I was missing.”

 

“She’s very beautiful,” he says because, duh, his mamá _is_ beautiful. His mom often gets asked in interviews why her wife isn’t a model or fellow actress.

Alma nods. She points at the other picture, the one with both of his mothers in it. They’re sitting on a picnic blanket with Uncle Noah and Aunt Quinn, laughing, and his mom’s got an arm wrapped around his mamá’s waist, and his mamá’s looking over at whoever is behind the camera lens while his mom just looks at his mamá like she’s the best thing in the world… Yeah, he’s got no idea how the hell his mom held out for almost a decade when it’s so obvious that Rachel Berry was- and _is_ \- in love with Santana López.

“This girl…” She wets her lips and sighs lightly. “When Santana came out to me, she told me that she was in love with this girl, with Rachel. Rachel came to see me to try to convince me to take back what I had said. I was not kind to her because I blamed her.”

Asher sits back against his chair. “Would you like to see a picture of my family?” he asks.

When she nods, he reaches into his backpack, pulls out his iPad, and flips through the pictures stored on the device. He settles on one of the most recent family pictures. The six of them are sitting on a couple of large picnic blankets in the Jardin du Luxembourg, smiling brightly. His parents sit in the center, hand entwined, his mamá’s head resting on his mom’s shoulder; he and Hanna sit to their mom’s right while Paloma and Félix sit to their mamá’s left.

Taking a deep breath, he hands over the iPad.

He watches as Alma Fernández’s eyes widen with recognition.

"Dios mío," she mutters.  
  


Her heart rate goes up and her shock is beyond evident in the way her face grows pale and her hands shake. He leans forward and places a hand atop one of hers.  
  
"It's okay. Please calm down," he says. His voice is steady. "Me llamo Asher Gabriel López, and I'm your great-grandson."

Alma touches the iPad screen, her weathered fingers running across his mothers’ faces, eyes watering at the sight of a joyous, adult Santana. She looks at each of the four López children’s faces and then glances up at Asher.

“You have her eyes,” she whispers. “I should have seen it.”

“I want you to know that…” He sighs softly. “Mamá knows that you’re here. She knows that I’ve been coming here to see you. And…Like, she- _we_ \- want you to come live with us.”

Her face scrunches up in confusion in a manner that is entirely reminiscent of his mamá’s. Alma bites her lip and sighs. “No.” She shakes her head. “No puedo. No entiendo. It makes no sense that Santana and…and _Rachel_ would want me to stay with them after what I’ve done. Le quite a esa muchacha la única madre que tenía.”

There’s a knock on the door and the two of them turn to find his mom walking into the hospital room. Rachel López looks beautiful and confident. She’s got on a black button-down blouse with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and these tailored white shorts. Her hair’s straight and silky and pushed back behind her ear on one side so that it shows off a single pearl earring. When Alma glances at Rachel’s hands (they’re laced together as Rachel steps forward), she catches the sight of a pair of glittering gold bands on the woman’s left hand.

Rachel and Santana are not just life partners, not just living together; they’re married. And, really, Alma is just so happy that _Santana_ is happy that she doesn’t _care_. Well, that’s not entirely true; she’s glad that her four great-grandchildren are legitimate and living a fantastic life.

“Buenas tardes,” Rachel says.

Alma smiles gently. “Buenas tardes, Rachel.”

“It’s nice to see you again.” Rachel stands behind her son, her hands on the back of his chair. “I’m sure that you and Asher have spoken by now.”

Alma nods. “Yes, we have.”

“Santana wanted to be here but she had an important meeting to get to in Boston. She’ll meet us at our apartment later tonight. We hope that you will find our home very welcoming, Mrs. Fernández.” Rachel tugs at the back of Asher’s sweater and then straightens it out. “I want you to know that both Santana and I are looking forward to having you in our home. We’re not asking you to live with us out of pity or spite; she and I are simply big believers in family and you are, after all, family.”

“I am a sick, bitter woman, Rachel,” Alma says quietly. “And I was very cruel to you and especially Santana. Why not let me sit out my last years in this room?”

Rachel shrugs. “I’m simply just not built that way. I do hope that you are respectful to my children who bear absolutely no blame for any animosity between us three adult women.”

“Of course not,” Alma interjects. “I’m just…I’m just confused.”

Rachel moves from behind Asher, walks over to the bed and sits on the edge of the thin mattress. “I know. But…bueno ¿por qué no intentar visir con nosotros? We’ve already spoken to your son and other grandchildren, and also with the chief of staff; we have permission to bring you home with us if you so choose.” She pats Alma’s hand. “Please consider our offer.”

The woman nods. “Si,” she says. “I think…I would like to try, yes. Thank you very much.”

…

She’s prone to insomnia in times of stress. Usually, curling up closer to Rachel is enough to comfort her and completely strip away any and all anxiety but tonight is not one of those nights.

Her abuela is in her apartment. The same woman who cut Santana out of her life over thirty years before is sleeping in the guest room ( _It’s her room now_ , she thinks) and she just needs to find some quiet, solitary place where she can breathe.

Santana’s curled up on this old armchair that she swears still smells of Joel’s cologne reading through a collection of Roque Dalton poetry when she hears shuffling outside the double doors to the library and she _knows_ it’s her abuela coming to talk to her.

And, like, _yes_ , she was all up for bringing her abuela home but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t have some concerns about the situation. If it weren’t for Asher, Santana doubts that she would have ever contacted any member of the Fernández side of her family, least of all Alma Fernández, the matriarch herself.

She braces herself as her abuela steps into the faint light of the room, heavily leaning on a cane as she moves toward the loveseat across from Santana. When her abuela finally sits, Santana looks down at the book in her lap and reads,

 

“Tengo quince años de cansarme

y lloro por las noches para fingir que vivo.

En ocasiones, cansado de las lágrimas,

hasta sueño que vivo.

Puede ser que vosotros no entendáis lo que son estas cosas.

 

Os habla, más que yo, mi primer vino mientras la piel que

sufro bebe sombra...”

 

She closes the book, settles it atop the coffee table, and leans back into her chair. “This was a favorite of mine because I could relate to it so beautifully. I cried when I was fifteen, when I was sixteen, when I was seventeen. I knew how you were going to react to my coming out. Still, I’d hoped that you could just-” Santana clears her throat because it’s closing up and _fuck_ , she wishes Rachel was here to hold her hand. “I hoped that you could look past your insane need for the approval of complete strangers and accept that your granddaughter is a lesbian. My hopes proved unrealistic.”

“I have spent the last thirty-three years of my life praying for this day, Santana, when I could finally come to you and tell you that I was wrong.” Alma wrings her hands together. “What I told you in my kitchen hace treinta años was… It was a stupid and vain old woman acting out. You are not, and have never been, an embarrassment and I can plainly see that your love for Rachel is genuine. As is hers for you. Te ruego que me perdones, Santana. Estoy muy arrepentida. I’ve regretted everything that I said you from that day since.”

She pushes her glasses to the top of her head and blinks rapidly to dry the tears forming in her eyes. “You destroyed me.”

Alma nods. “Lo sé.”

“Rachel put me back together again. _She_ did.”

“I know. I will die knowing that I hurt you in the worst way possible, Santana. I have to live with the fact that I caused you pain every day. I live with the regret of the words I spoke to you, of how I acted. I am eternally sorry. I’m sorry.” She’s crying and Santana can’t recall a time when she’s seen her abuela cry. “I know that don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I am very grateful for the compassion you’re showing me by letting me stay here. By letting me meet my great-grandchildren. Son preciosos, Santana. You and Rachel have raised hijos maravillosos.”

She bites her bottom lip and nods. “Gracias. I can’t just wave off what happened. It was a long time ago and I am a completely different person than I was then, but I am a person formed _because_ of what you said to me. Without the trauma of your desprecio, maybe I would’ve had the courage to tell Rachel that I loved her before I did. Maybe she would’ve told me that she loved me before _she_ did. Maybe we would have been married longer or… The thing is that we do love each other, we are married, we have four kids, and everything else is crap.” She shrugs. “I’m happy. Nothing else matters.”

…

Santana knows that she’s truly forgiven her abuela when, weeks later, they’re all out to the Met walking through the Robert Lehman Collection (her abuela’s holding Félix’s hand) and the old woman sees a few of her friends, introduces Félix and says, “He’s the youngest born to my granddaughter and her wonderful wife.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Buenas tardes" - Good afternoon  
> "¿Dos mamás?" - Two moms?  
> "¿Eres hijo único?" - Are you an only child?  
> "La gente es cruel" - People are cruel  
> "Bien dicho, Asher. ¿Y que hacen?" - Well said, Asher. What do they do?  
> "Algo así." - Something like that  
> " Pura estupidez." - Pure stupidity  
> "Le dije" - I told her  
> "Pero la quise más que a los otros nietos." - But I loved her more than the other grandchildren.  
> "¿Que pasó?" - What happened  
> "Le dije que era una vergüenza" - I told her that she was an embarrassment  
> "Perversiones" - perversions  
> "No es vergüenza" - It's not shameful  
> "la gente" - the people  
> "la abuela de la lesbiana" - the lesbian's grandmother  
> "Me avergüenzo de mi misma" - I'm ashamed of myself  
> "en los tiempos difíciles my abuelo" - in hard times my grandfather  
> “Mira allí adentro.” - Look inside there  
> "Dios mío" - My God  
> "Me llamo Asher Gabriel López" - My name is Asher Gabriel Lopez  
> “No puedo. No entiendo." - I can't. I don't understand.  
> "Le quite a esa muchacha la única madre que tenía.” - I took away the only mother that girl knew.  
> "Bueno ¿por qué no intentar visir con nosotros?" - Well, why not try living with us?  
> "Hace treinta años" - thirty years ago  
> "Te ruego que me perdones, Santana. Estoy muy arrepentida." - I'm begging you to forgive me, Santana. I'm very sorry.  
> “Lo sé.” - I know  
> "Son preciosos, Santana." - They're precious, Santana.  
> "hijos maravillosos.” - marvelous children  
> "Gracias" - Thank you  
> "desprecio" - contempt
> 
> \---------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> Estudio con algo de tedio
> 
> “Clov: —llora…  
> Hamm: —Luego vive”.  
> (Diálogo de “Fin de Partida” de Beckett.)
> 
>  
> 
> Tengo quince años y lloro por las noches.
> 
> Yo sé que ello no es en manera alguna peculiar  
> y que antes bien hay otras cosas en el mundo  
> más apropiadas para decíroslas cantando.
> 
> Sin embargo hoy he bebido vino por primera vez  
> y me he quedado desnudo en mis habitaciones para sorber la tarde  
> hecha minúsculos pedazos  
> por el reloj.
> 
> Pensar a solas duele. No hay nadie a quien golpear. No hay nadie  
> a quien dejar piadosamente perdonado.  
> Está uno y su cara. Uno y su cara  
> de santón farsante.  
> Surge la cicatriz que nadie ha visto nunca,  
> el gesto que escondemos todo el día,  
> el perfil insepulto que nos hará llorar y hundirnos  
> el día en que lo sepan todo las buenas gentes  
> y nos retiren el amor y el saludo hasta los pájaros.
> 
> Tengo quince años de cansarme  
> y lloro por las noches para fingir que vivo.  
> En ocasiones, cansado de las lágrimas,  
> hasta sueño que vivo.
> 
> Puede ser que vosotros no entendáis lo que son estas cosas.
> 
> Os habla, más que yo, mi primer vino mientras la piel que  
> sufro bebe sombra…
> 
> \- Roque Dalton
> 
>  
> 
> Study With a Little Tedium
> 
> Clov: He’s crying.  
> Hamm: Then he’s living.  
> Endgame by Beckett
> 
>  
> 
> Fifteen years old and I cry every night.  
> I know there’s nothing special about this,  
> that there are better things in this world  
> to tell you about in my singing voice.
> 
> Even so I drank wine for the first time today  
> and stayed in my room naked, so I could take in the afternoon  
> carved into small pieces  
> by the clock.
> 
> Thinking alone hurts. There’s no one to hit, no one  
> to pardon and mercifully let off the hook.  
> Only you and your face. You and your face  
> of a phony saint.
> 
> The scar no one has ever seen comes into view,  
> the grimace we hide every day,  
> the face I’ve never been able to bury, it will make us cry and break down completely  
> on the day the good people know everything  
> and even the birds deny us love and a song.
> 
> Fifteen years of being tired  
> and I cry every night just to make believe I’m alive.
> 
> Maybe none of you understands what I’m talking about.
> 
> It’s my first wine talking not me  
> while the skin weighing me down swallows the shade.
> 
> \- Roque Dalton
> 
> Translated by James Graham


End file.
